It was a dark an stormy night and as luck would have it, me crew had been carried orf by Sea Eagles. These massive flying bastards had swooped down just after 8 bells and, one by one, me croo disappeared into the dark.

Yarrgh this reminds me of a tale o long ago when me (The Black Spot at yer service) and thee croo used ta frequent a dark and dingy little Inn tucked away in thee back streets.

Twere called 'The Shrunken Head' and it was rumoured ta be haunted.

It weren't a bad place for a drop o grog but thee landlord kept a hideous shrunken head on a mount above thee bar which used ta put me right orf me vittles. Ye could feel the sockets of it's eyes watchin ye as ye supped yer grog and ye'd end up gettin a bit of a shiver.

Anyway, one day I was sittin in me usual corner, wiv a bottle o grog, when a dark fellar covered in tattoos comes in, sets his eyes on thee shrunken head and starts wailing some mumbo jumbo and pointing at the head shouting: WHANAUNGA! WHANAUNGA!

When we managed to calm him down he told us his name was Squeegyquog and that the head belonged to his brother Charlie. He begged us to let him take it back home to New Zealand. The landlord, Jim, wasn't too happy about this, 'how can you run an inn called The Shrunken Head if it aint got a Shrunken Head?' he pointed out. Squeegyquog uttered an oath and told us that the head was bad luck and would bring a curse down on Jim but Jim would have none of it, even though we pointed out that in recent months his wife had left him, his kids had disowned him, he'd lost all his money in game of poker with me, his leg had been crushed by a barrel of rum, his cat ginger had died, his goldfish Timmy had fallen in the Fish Head Stew and the entire Inn had dry rot.

Things might have gone ill for Jim if I hadn't a come up with a cunning plan. We got my ship's carpenter to whittle an exact likeness of the head out of solid mahogany and placed it on the shelf above the bar…you couldn't tell the difference, apart from the smell. Squeegyquog lifted the curse and with a 'E noho ra' he took his brother's head and departed for the Southern Seas with a general invitation for us all to pop round for a Barbie in the summer.

Two weeks later a Welsh bloke came into the Shrunken Head, pointed at the wooden head above the bar and shouted "Mummy!'

The smoke wafted gently in the breeze across the poop deck and all seemed right in the world.